The Venerable
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: The story of Azar in three parts. Prequel to Walk on Water.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note****:** I am fascinated by the idea of Azar – particularly since we never get to see her as a character in her own right and especially since she's so obviously such a strong influence on Raven's character. And I found – when I decided to write Azar into _Walk on Water_ – that I also felt this need to write _her_ story.

This is not even close to canon (since there is none). This is merely my speculations based on what little we get in the comic, the cartoon, and my own fanon inserted into WoW. Sabe will also make an appearance ^_^

1**The Venerable**

**Part I**

By Kysra

She is born cradled in the mists of autumn, on the equinox, when the moon is at her zenith and the crickets are singing in tandem to her mother's euphoric cries. There is light and love in the little corner room of the tiny hut where her parents dwell, and the fire throws shadows all 'round so that her first view is of black ghosts that are multiplied with the twilight hour and the entrance of her grand-mother, aunts, and uncles. They all coo and awe over her wet, cold body as she screams and wrestles beneath the heavy, scratching birthing blanket till a hand not her mother's covers her face and weak, barely-there fingers skim into her mouth to caress her newly exposed gums.

"This one will be wise." She doesn't understand the words but immediately quiets to the sound, and her mother holds her just a little tighter, a little closer to bring warmth and a welcoming security.

"This one will be loved."

As is the custom, she is not named until her second season has passed and gone and the third is celebrated according to the Founder's direction. It is understood that she will take her grand-mother's name and mantle, though when has yet to be revealed by time. Her family is not troubled, nor is the society she will lead. She is a good child with a ready smile and calm demeanor even at this age usually so wrought with challenge in exploration and measured independence.

When the day dawns on the second day of her third season, she is bathed in milk and fed honey. Her bright eyes take in sights she has never seen, her ears are filled with sounds she has never heard for it is sacrilege to taint Temple with a child's unstudied and blank aura. She sees people and children and horses, dogs, cats; and her heart pounds with the excitement of it even as father's hand pats her knee to calm her.

She is naked when they lead her up the seemingly endless column of stairs, and her mother begins to cry when she is carried to a raised altar deep beneath the stone roof. There is a fire there that burns a cool blue. It paints the gray stone a similar color. She thinks it is pretty but refrains from saying so. Grand-mother is here, and grand-mother does not stand for such trivial critiques.

"Young one of the house of the Founder. Do you know who I am?"

It is on her learning, agile lips to respond that grand-mother is grand-mother because that she is and will always be, but there is something in the question, in the tone that stills her. She is not being asked of 'who' but, rather, 'what.' The answers are not the same and mutually exclusive.

Carefully, she forms the word without voice, trying it on for size and attempting to wrap her tongue about the syllables. There is a crowd of strangers behind, blocking the incoming sunlight; however, she does not wish to embarrass her family. She has never been bathed in milk and rarely fed honey; and she understands as well as a child her age can that something about this day is important to all present.

"F'unduh." She gurgles from lack of speech; but the response, she knows, is the correct and expected one. Grand-mother's milky eyes stare straight ahead and over her, but there is a smile beneath the crinkly skin and broad nose.

"Let it be witnessed that this girl child of my house shall henceforth be known as _Azar_ and named for my honor, my student and heir, and granted all of the privileges and respect that such an identity and position warrants. May her soul be clean and whole and bright for eternity and beyond by the will of the Divine Universe."

She can feel the warmth of her mother and the solidity of her father as she is cradled between and within their arms. There is cheering and hands shaking like falling leaves in the deep of autumn, and she claps with a bubbling giggle and bouncing curls.

The heir despises lessons. This relationship is established from the first when she is seven seasons and three turns old. It is a prodigious time, says grand-mother, and all is in alignment for initiation of her training; but Azar, the second, does not understand the thieving of her time, cannot comprehend the usefulness of quiet reflection. It is all she can do sometimes to simply sit still and listen when all she wishes is to run and jump and play with the other children of the village or help her family cultivate the garden, water in the stream.

She loves to swim and laugh. There is even pleasure in crying when sadness or anger overtakes (which is rare but happens occasionally when she least expects), and she is only a child . . . . who wants to explore her surroundings not cloister herself in some dark cave of self-actualization.

Grand-mother admonishes her frequently. Mother begs her to focus and father just smiles in an apologetic and understanding way. She was born in the autumn on the equinox under a harvest moon and it is only natural that she be active and energetic and expressive. Theyador, whose title was 'The Author' as Azarath's only historian, her master teacher and current High Priest, often chides her for her passively rebellious nature, but also seems to allow her the space she needs to thrive.

"Little one, you are too cheeky." He would say. And she would smile from her seat in the field or near the river and answer,

"And charming."

He would laugh then, a great rumbling sound that echoed her heartbeat. "That too."

In her mind, she knows that she has been baptized as 'Azar,' but her family and Master Theyador call her _Leeba_; and she likes that name better as it marks her in a way she finds more suitable and attractive for it is foreseen that she is the last of her line and is as the preferred name implies, 'beloved.'

'Azar' is her grand-mother, the Founder, the Savior, and Chief Magistrate; and 'Azar' has died.

The old woman passes in the midst of tea with mother just as a raven dives into the garden to snatch up a turnip; and Leeba feels the chill of something brushing her cheek at that moment. She picks up her basket of vegetables and runs as if Scath's imps are at her heels to kneel at her grand-mother's still-warm side and brush two fingers along the center of a frail and limp palm. There is no response save the weeping sounds of mother's grief and the yelling shouts of her uncle running into the village with the news.

Leeba merely sits and waits as that great aura, golden and piercing with intensity, dims to nothing and watches the wizened face as if expecting life to return as mysteriously as it left.

Master Theyador collects her after the sun has lowered into the bosom of the horizon and stoops at her side where she is stooped at grand-mother's side. "Come away, Leeba. We must prepare the Founder for her Lighting."

Leeba does not understand the concept of death and the necessity of accepting it. Grand-mother is the first person she has ever lost, and indeed, that is as it feels - as if she has misplaced something indefinable and internally vital. There is already a void where this woman once was, and as she reaches a hand to caress the still-strong jaw and trace the numerous wrinkles that are soft rather than leathery, Leeba knows she will never experience such an aura again. With the knowledge, her face is wet and her heart full to bursting with an earthy weightiness.

A large, strong hand falls upon her shoulder as she begins to rise onto her knees to hug her grand-mother's body, and soon enough she is pulled into a living embrace, her ear pressed against a beating heart that drums through her head and sings into her chest as she experiences grief for the first time.

She wakes one night to the sound of whispers and the light of a single lantern. There is the smell of smoke and crushed grass, wild flowers and ash; but she is not alarmed because there are giggles and purring chuckles interspersed amid the low voices. Her mouth wreathes in a smile that carries her feet to the source, and at the edge of the family hut, she finds her parents huddled and happy beneath blankets against the crisp mid-winter chill. They beckon her when they notice her shadow hovering and she moves to join them, centering herself between them as their arms encase her and their cheeks press against her crown.

There is a sense of impermanence as she is now well into her eleventh season and will have to make her own hearth soon. She cuddles closer to block the raging fear of loneliness the thought floods into her hands, behind her eyes; and she turns to the study of her parents and their contrasts as it has fascinated her since she still toddled about their ankles.

Her mother is small and dark with olive toned skin that seems to absorb all light only to glow with it beneath shelter. Her hair is long, curly and sable . . . though riddled with reed-thin streaks of gray, and her eyes are hazel with a hint of gold about the iris. Leeba is nearly as tall now, a hair's breadth from reaching four and a half heads, but mother is raw-boned and skinny with lean muscle and prominent joints.

Father is wholly different, large and rotund with fair skin beneath perpetual sunburn and smattered with freckles that fade and darken with the passage of seasons. His head is bald by choice but his eyebrows hint at ginger and his eyelashes are bleached to a lovely wheat blond. They shade his pale blue eyes that seem to change hue according to his emotions. His frame is thick and solid and strong, and he is easily the tallest of men in the village.

Leeba sighs contentedly as her parents fall into slumber on either side and she lifts up a hand to inspect it. She has only ever seen half of herself reflected in the river water, and she looks nothing like her mother or father as other children do. She, instead, resembles her grand-mother . . . or so the Elders of the Council constantly say. Her skin is pale despite her days spent beneath the suns' light and heat, and her long hair falls like a pressed golden veil about her shoulders; but it is her eyes, a startlingly uniform and pure silver, that garners the attention of the people she meets.

Her father often says her stare reminds him of the owls he sometimes spies in the dark forest, glowing with concentrated mystery and bright with palpable knowledge.

"Understanding eludes me." She says in a small voice, visibly upset at her inability to grasp the concept of oneness with the universe. Master Theyador had prefaced the lesson with the dire warning that as she has completed her general arithmatic, theology, reading, and writing, things would only become more difficult. Leeba held no talent for the abstract, her mind too focused on the corporeal.

Master Theyador looks down on her with his intense golden eyes. She often thinks that if her eyes resemble those of an owl, his brings visions of wolves and bobcats. "Of course it does. You seek to understand that which is not meant to be understood."

Her face is a mirror of her emotions, scrunched and tense and ugly. "To seek knowledge only to know you will fail is nonsensical!"

He laughs and it is music as beautiful as bird song or the roar of a bear successful at the hunt. "Tis not failure one finds at the end of such a journey, Leeba. Tis understanding."

"You speak in circles, Teacher. How can one find understanding regarding knowledge that is not meant to be understood?" Her mouth is a pursed little frown as her cheeks redden with frustration. Hands grasp at loose hair and fingers pull at her limp skirt. She is a kinetic force, her knees trembling with the need to run down the sloping hill or jump into the rushing nearby stream to relieve the pressure of her mind.

Theyador is a man only some fifteen years older than herself, but he has already mastered patience and so he sits quietly in a perfect lotus and breathes into a small, secretive smile. "You have a tendency to over think. The answer is simple and infinite. Focus too long on what is before your eyes and touching your skin, and you will find that you have forgotten that which is most precious."

She stills for a moment, startled that his eyes are looking into her own with an expression so bright it hurts, as if he is willing her to pry comprehension from the depths of her knowledge. There is the fluffy-sharp tickle of static against her skin and the tugging of wind-tails rushing through her hair, molding her clothes. Her nose twitches with the smell of freshly shucked corn and the metallic sting of blood and the clean scent of her mother's embrace.

Leeba fumbles gracelessly to stand, wavering just a moment before thrusting a finger toward her teacher, High Priest, and friend, her entire body shaking with an understanding that has nothing to do with their lesson for the day. "You are . . . "

He stands as well and flinches slightly when she retreats a step. "I am all and nothing. I am a grain of sand just as I am the entire beach. It is the same with you, young one."

Shaking her head frantically, tears jump to her eyes and somehow, it feels the same as when grand-mother died and yet so much worse because her best friend is causing such pain and he yet stands before her, alive and well and aching with her. "I am . . . afraid."

And suddenly she is in his arms and holding tight as the wind tears at them, a sudden and horrible storm that rips and claws at their skin, blinding their eyes, pushing her into a dark space within her mind. She is still afraid but grounded, supported by his near strength and quietude. "Be afraid, Leeba; but never let the fear consume you. We must work through the fear until we understand ourselves."

"I . . . I think . . I understand."

He tightened his hold, and suddenly she could breathe again. "We must understand when we cannot understand. We must come to know that we are not gods and do not rule the world or the many plants and creatures upon it. We can only begin to understand and know ourselves."

And then there is the relieved sound of his sigh against her ear, the heat of his breath fanning her forehead, the touch of his lips . . . "This is only the beginning of the lesson. We must accept our smallness within the vast expanse of several worlds."

He never needed to say the words. She had never felt smaller in her life.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Venerable**

**Part II**

By Kysra

As the seasons turn and she grows, Leeba sees changes in herself and the way others view her. Long forgotten is the bare caress of another's mouth against hers, so strange and unexpected and masked by the overwhelming alarm she associates with that time; and she longs for a bit of romance (even if such trivialities are often discouraged) for herself as her friends begin to fall into other houses and find suitable mates.

It is a volatile time, full of euphoria, anger, and tears as Leeba is not short of prospects nor is she short of opinions. No man can meet her extensive requirements, and she cannot comprehend the exasperation of her family, neighbors or herself. She wishes for nothing less than companionship. Her parents wish for nothing more than her happiness. And it is because of this that she feels as if she is failing in some fundamental aspect. Her studies are going well and though she has become quiet and somewhat withdrawn in the time and space since infancy, she is still in constant motion and possessed of a mind filled with absolutes.

Master Theyador chastises her when she apologizes to suitors, citing that she is better as friend than anything that requires the promise of intimacy. It is a promise she cannot make, a vow she cannot give since she has no intention of keeping it. Her heart has already voiced its preference though her mind has yet to acknowledge it; and sometimes, when a certain smile is thrown her way and a touch is made to linger, her heart flutters in recognition and her breath catches and she can barely see anything but pure golden eyes laughing down on her in benediction and love.

Leeba is not quite certain when it happens, but at some unspecified, unquantifiable point, her heart and mind begin to agree on issues she has pretended ignorance of until now. She is edging on eighteen seasons and her parents' have begun to despair of seeing her away in a house all her own; but as she moves through the town and speaks to the people and goes about her lessons and duties as the newly appointed Chief Magistrate, she - now called 'Azar' by citizens - admits to herself that she is not yet ready to settle away from her family.

Unsteady and nervous, she is in constant question with the Council and herself. Her fear is that she will misstep, that she will gain her grand-mother's disapproval. There is a subtle heat emanating from the rings adorning each ring finger of her hands - the heirlooms also bearing grand-mother's name, and Leeba often wonders how to act in a manner mimicking that of the Founder before allowing the thought to worm through that she will never match such greatness.

It is the uncertainty eating at her insides that sends her into her parents' arms and the bosom of her little corner of their hut. Here she is many things and expectations are high in the air but such sharpness is softened by the warmth in her mother's eyes and the frankness of her father's tongue. They are ever wise, intuitive, and free with their advice and encouragement. Their support fills up her empty spaces and supplies her with confidence for the morrow.

. . . However, when her parents are unavailable or the house is empty, she does not sit idle waiting for comfort. Her master-teacher is a mere half-days' walk away, a short distance when grave situations weigh heavily on her beleaguered mind. She makes the trek often; and when she cannot, he comes to her . . . as if he intuitively knows he is needed.

It is raining one day when they meet in the middle, and they laugh at each other's bedraggled appearance, laughing harder when Leeba slips upon a patch of muddy earth to fall upon her bottom with a loud, squishy thud. He stumbles to her side, his legs threatening to give out as hers had, and cups her cheeks in both hands. Their faces are rosy with happiness as the chuckling lessens and dies, outlived by smiles, and their eyes meet and hold, dusky gold against moon silver.

She knows in that moment that he knows, and that they both feel similarly. His jovial mouth softens, the laugh lines gentling about the corners, as she bites at her bottom lip, feeling nervous and expectant and too many other things to name.

"Live with me," he breathes, and her world is shrunken down until all she can feel is the violent tremble of her limbs as the rain mingles with her tears and cools her heated skin. Her head bobs in a frantic nod, her tongue thick and awkward in her mouth where it presses tightly to her palate as her voice whimpers and she falls into his arms. There is only the warmth of his breath in her ear and the calming pressure of his mouth against her skin; and later, with her face nuzzled against his chest and their legs entangled, lying as they are within the circle of golden fireglow, she finds the strength and words to speak, giving him a respectful, resolute affirmation.

And it is in this way that Leeba leaves her parents' house for the first and last time.

Nary four months into cohabitation, Leeba finds herself alternatively sick, hungry, and growing round with child despite precautions. Azarath is a sprawling world of vegetation and wilds; however, the area settled is small and compact, and the population controlled seemingly by a natural instinct ingrained within its people. Considering the history of their little world, the citizens were largely content to dedicate their lives to spiritual purity and forgo the distraction of reproducing. The rest, those spontaneously gifted with progeny or those who had planned for such a future, only managed to produce an average of at least 5 and no more than 10 children a season.

Leeba belonged to neither group as she had never been particularly adept or interested in the abstractness of her spirit nor did she ever truly believe she would find the means let alone the desire to spawn. She is, therefore, somewhat ignorant as to the changes of her body until her midriff begins to balloon and the child within begins to move. When the realization finally sets in that she is to be a mother, she finds herself somewhat apprehensive, a touch excited, and largely euphoric.

Here is a child of her own body and Theyador's, combined of their souls, blood, and flesh; and for a moment, she knows how to love unconditionally.

Childbirth is a new and awesome thing, and completely painful. Leeba has no enemies, cannot even comprehend such an outlandish concept; but she knows without knowing why that she would not wish such atrocious agony on such characters no matter their sins. It lasts a small eternity (which Theyador assures her was a mere half-day), and she loses all sense of herself several times during the ordeal; but when it is over, there is a tiny person, wet with blood and other bodily fluids, screaming with hearty lungs and scrunched face. This new soul is squirming jerkily against her bare stomach and seems calmed by the jiggling of her body as she laughs with relief and joy.

She has never known such an emotion as she does when she looks upon her child - her daughter - for the first time, tears misting the image but masking none of the poignancy. This feeling is more than the happiness of companionship with Theyador, stronger than the grief grand-mother's Passing caused. It transends all, grants her strength, holds her secure, and grounds her with responsibility even as she soars with lightness. It takes all of her energy but fills her with purpose.

Here is her blood and there is her eyes, and Leeba holds on to this precious bundle, wondering why when she feels so wonderfully fulfilled, there is a shadow weaved intangible into the netting fabric of her baby's aura.

"We should name her." Theyador says one night as Leeba sits with the baby in her lap, feeding from her breast by fire flame. Leeba merely smiles and nods and goes back to studying the fluttering eyelids, pudgy fingers, and kitten fine hair of her child.

"All things have a time." And the time had not yet come to name their girl. Azar, the Founder, had been a great believer in the power of one's name, and Azar, the younger, did not stray far from such a philosophy. She wanted to gift her child with a name which would be flexible enough to foster and define her growing personality without smothering her with influence. It was a delicate thing, the act of naming, and Leeba was far from certain as to the perfect calling for her perfect baby.

He chuckles from across their little space, stoking the fire where their dinner cooked sedately, smoke drifting in tendrils to exit through the oculus. "You become spoiled with her."

She grants him an answering grin, her eyes bright as platinum shining under moonglow. "I think, perhaps, you are right."

Because Leeba has a keen understanding of the solid and coarse. She knows that she loves her child above all things; and feeling such for one single being is dangerous to entertain. It opens the way to pain, suffering, and a poisoned soul; but Leeba does not care for the preaching of her society or conscience, and it is the lack of fear that drives unrest into the heart of her mate.

It is dark, cold, and gray when winter sets in. It is a bleaker time than any Azar has seen yet in the twenty-two seasons of her life. She has taken to bed with a vengeful sickness that rages for 17 days, and by the end, she is no longer robust and fit but wasted away and fragile. Her skin has blanched a muted gray and her hair cries streaks of silver.

Those dark days she finds movement a chore and standing an impossibility. Theyador is patient and gentle in an abrasive, forceful way as if he is nervous and does not know quite what to do with her. The baby-who-is-no-longer-a-baby and affectionately called Atarah (for truly, she had become from the moment she was birthed, the very queen of her parents' hearts) is taken away to spare her little bones from such a terrorizing illness, and Azar only feels worse for it.

The fever lingers yet, even as the delusions subside and her skin breaks into sweat so precious and needed from her dried husk of a body. It is in the throes of mirror-dreams and nightmares that she loses herself to the largeness of the universe and the writhing, temperate threads of her own aura. And when she wakes, breathless and cold and happy for it, Theyador's warm hand is cupped against her damp forehead and she suddenly fears the knowledge he has written there.

"Why?" Her voice is low and coarse. She hates the sound of it as she can imagine this is what she will sound like in age.

Her mate looks sad and vaguely sheepish, like a little boy who knows he is in trouble. It is difficult to reconcile what she knows of him with this strange grown child looking down on her, scared and chastised. "You needed guidance and as you are never convinced without experience, I deemed such measures necessary."

She looks up to the oculus, trying to paint the colorless sky with her memory. "It is cold there. I froze and it was like . . . Passing."

He narrows his eyes as she begins to cry unwillingly, sobs tearing from her swollen, sore throat. "You disappoint me. Passing is not to be feared or abhorred but welcomed as a homecoming."

Azar closes her eyes and breathes deeply despite the pain such an action causes, fumbling to find her center - green grass, spring and butterflies, sunbeams raining down warmth and light . . . "This is not what I wanted for us . . . " She says finally, her heart breaking beneath the weight of newfound knowledge and the harsh stab of understanding that which should not be understood. There was the absence of laughter, the aching silence, the missing hands and soft baby-skin, but - more - the emptiness gaping in the center of her chest where Theyador's epithet is now scribbled behind her eyes and leaking inky tears to her temples and beyond. "Our girl is gone . . . "

She feels Theyador shift to lying next to her, his arms and legs coming up and around to brace around her body, warming her even as his own face, wet with tears, rests against her bosom. "Yes, dear one. Our girl is gone."

Twenty-six seasons have passed since her birth, but she feels as if there have been 100 marking her steps as she climbs to the high altar to take her place among her grand-mother's ilk. No longer a mere magistrate - supreme or no, but also High Priestess. She takes a position near her mate as he places a wreath of laurel and olive upon her head. The dry twigs catch her hair, the leaves caressing her cheek. There is the heavy scent of incense in the air and the cold stone surrounding them on all sides. Her heart is beating with more and more speed as Theyador draws closer to perform the blood oaths, and she wants nothing more than to run.

He smiles at her gently even as she fights to maintain a statue sort of stillness. His fingers brush her hair back unnecessarily as he baptizes her with tallow and kisses her mouth, lips closed and grin still in place.

Unwillingly, she smiles back, her eyes taking him in as if for the first time. He has ever been tall and strongly built like her father; however, he is also lean and dark-skinned with braided, bronze hair and those beautiful, strange golden eyes. He jokes with every look that - if for no other reason - they have been brought together by their utter difference. She, pale as the moon. He, dark as the night. She, in constant motion. He, a fixed pillar.

Their hands entwine as he makes the cut - one for each fingertip, then releases her to wash her bloody hands in a mortar basin. She is still uncertain on whether she is fit to be this as well as Council. She is just beginning to feel comfortable making broad judgments and long-ranging suggestions and persuading others that this is the way. Her heart is squeezing in her chest when Theyador breaks tradition for the first time in his life and presents her with a bone-jarring, breath-stealing kiss that lights her whole body on fire and causes their audience to squirm uncomfortably though they will no doubt be forgiven, the incident dismissed as a symptom of impetuous youth.

Azar breathes to his mouth as he whispers of how proud he is to pass the mantle down to her, that all has come full circle and the Founder, her long absent soul residing in the rings warming her fingers, can finally rest easy knowing that her wishes were now reality.

"I . . . am not certain I am strong enough. I fear I shall make mistakes . . . "

"Sweet, to err is human." He held her just a little closer, skimming his lips over her cheek to whisper in her ear. "You are the strongest person I have ever known."

She somehow knew he was - as ever - attempting to teach her a lesson. It warmed her in a strange way and suddenly it was as if a shadow standing over her for the bulk of her life was finally illuminated.

Sabe is a child of ill-temper and perpetually skinned knees. Her hair is a rat's nest of plenty, and her face is ever crusted with dirt from eating mud pies with the other children. It is an easy thing to dismiss her for something low and comely; and when the girl is presented before Azar for dispersing, Azar has a moment of recoil.

It is one of the duties she loathes most. There are a very scant number of orphans here; and those few are her direct responsibility. She must feed, clothe, and shelter them. She must find them families in which to assimilate. She must mother them, and face their heartbreak. It is like losing her own child over and over and over again.

When Sabe is brought to Temple, before the ever-burning spirit flame, her skin is rosy and clean, her hair sweet-smelling and combed into bouncing ebony curls. There are pale scars standing out against the healthy tan of her hands and feet, a smoldering scowl pinching the little face. The child stands straight and glares without censure directly, a veritable wall pushing back against the High Priestess' approach. Azar grins despite the gravity of the situation. She finds that she rather likes the look of the little girl, defiant and wary but brave in the face of uncertainty.

"What are you called?" The question echoes in the expansive emptiness of the blue-lit stone building, and Sabe slightly cringes at the sound, so imperious in tone and cadence. Azar allows her grin to deepen to visibility before lowering herself to the girl's level.

"She is Sabe, madam." The girl's temporary guardian speaks for the waif. "The child of Samson and Rith."

Azar had known the couple, they having been of a similar age and playmates for a time. The man had succumbed to fever, the woman had not remained behind.

Lips thinning, Azar stares into the child's amber eyes and sees the understated fear and soul-deep weariness etched there like a gaping wound. It is not long before a decision is made. "You shall live with me, I think. Would you be unwilling, child? Or will you allow me to give you home and hearth?"

Sabe is a strong child, willful and sharp and decisive; but her life has been altered beyond repair and no one can salve the wounds of abandonment she feels to her marrow. Brown eyes swerve to the man at her side - an old family friend who is at once familiar and contemptible to her for bringing her here to this place before this woman who wishes to kidnap her. He pats her head and shakes his own. He cannot help. This is her decision.

Azar speaks again, a smile palpable in her voice even to Sabe's roaring ears. "I understand this is a substantial problem and an unexpected solution. If you wish it, you shall have time to prepare a suitable answer. I leave you to your temporary guardian for now; however, I shall expect your heartfelt response in seven days' time."

Sabe leaves that place, cold despite the fire, without looking back to the gold and silver-haired woman whose words had offered her hope; and though she has been given seven days to reflect, it takes only three to come to a decision.

Mistress Azar and Master Theyador welcome her into their cramped but warm little hut with open arms and loving hearts, and Sabe almost feels as safe as she did with her parents.

_To Be Continued . . . _


End file.
